


Ruffled

by witchkings



Series: Of Butchers and Birds [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kaer Morhen, M/M, More angst, Pain, TRIGGER WARNINGS IN AUTHOR'S NOTE, Winter, a bit of canon mixing, excessive bird imagery, geralt has a lot of feelings, this is a sequel to my fic aflutter but you can read it on its own
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:34:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25988284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchkings/pseuds/witchkings
Summary: “Wolf,” Vesemir grunted when Geralt entered the dining hall which was basked in flickering fire light, kept warm by the magic of companionship. He flexed his hand absentmindedly. It had healed, but felt strange still, a few fingers numb at times when they shouldn’t be. He could only pray his own stupidity didn’t cost him his job in the long run because there was no early retirement for Witchers. Eskel and Lambert eyed him warily as he approached the table. No breaks. No happy end. Geralt sat down and pulled close the fourth bowl of soup they had kept on the table ever since his return. It was the first time he made use of it and when he shoveled it into his mouth, the others relaxed and picked up whatever conversation Geralt had interrupted.It had been a day since he woke up and his heart was in shards, scattered all over his insides. But he realized that, if he didn’t want to die, he had to go back to the way he had been before. Before Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Of Butchers and Birds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886164
Comments: 10
Kudos: 113





	Ruffled

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically a sequel to my other fic 'Aflutter' and it wouldn't hurt to read that first, but you can read this one on its own. It got a bit out of hand on the angst scale, but what else is new. We love a good bit of pain. Hope you enjoy it, please read the trigger warnings before you read the fic, just to be safe :)
> 
> Also regarding canon: this mixes bits of the tv show, bits from Blood of Elves and bits from my other story. 
> 
> tws: anxiety, self-harm, self-deprecating thoughts, vague symptoms of an eating disorder, implied violence
> 
> Edit 30/08/2020: So I realized that I wrote this whole thing in present tense while the first one was written in past tense... which bothered the hell out of me so I changed it to past tense. Forgive me if I've overlooked any verbs please.

It was the third time this week that Geralt had punched his knuckles bloody on the training dummy and who could blame him, really. Once he was down there in the courtyard, his mind jumped to the worry that had been gnawing him hollow these past months, and there was nothing he could do but take it out on whatever got in his way. Better the dummy than his brothers, they wouldn’t be amused at all. For those blessed hours, Geralt felt the negative emotions seep out of him, drawn like poison from a wound. It was when the ache set into his muscles, the sting of raw skin woke him, that he had to stop. Overwhelmed once more by the flood, like judgment day had finally come.

It was the third time this week that Geralt had punched his knuckles bloody and it wasn’t even Thursday. Last week had been much of the same, and the others were starting to notice. A hush fell over every room he entered. Lambert stopped joking with him and Eskel kept asking whether he was fine, which of course Geralt wasn’t, fuck you, but he wasn’t about to spill his guts like some. Some. Some fucking, gossip-addicted maiden whose sole life purpose was to dwell on her pathetic feelings. Gods, but Geralt was about to go feral. Then there was Vesemir who looked at him, openly, an ancient sadness written into the deep lines of his face, as if he knew.

That night, Geralt headed straight for his quarters. He wasn’t going to stand their flitting glances, the questions that hovered under everyone’s tongues. Objectively, Geralt was starving, his stomach cramped in hunger, but his appetite had been lost along somewhere along his path much like that which he mourned. But no. No thinking of that.

He let himself into the bathwater that was left from that morning, cold and stale and biting at his spent body. Hissed. Groaned. Then submersed himself. Winter was budding all over Kaer Morhen and because Geralt never bothered to put on a fire these days it had already taken residence in the little cracks in his walls, as a hush under his bed, manifest in this water that chilled him down to the bone. It was all he could do to press his teeth together and hold his breath. It would be a long one, and it would be empty. Cold.

When his oxygen ran out, Geralt stayed under water. His fingers went numb, he couldn’t feel his toes. His knees creaked in protest, brittle under the constant strain.

 _You’re getting old_ , he thought.

But no. Fuck no. It wasn’t age that did this to him, not by a long shot. The years past, yes. But not age.

Just when Geralt teetered on the edge of drowning, when his lungs were about to collapse, he emerged from the water. A part of him was angry. Wanted to stay under. Let it be done.

But no. Fuck no. He wouldn’t be defeated, not like this. And if there was but the slightest chance for things to turn around Geralt had to be alive to seize it. No dying, not yet.

Geralt walked over to his bed without drying himself off and slipped under the thin cotton sheet. It clung to his skin, soaking instantly, and he shivered. Crossed his arms and rested his head in his hands to stare at the dust-embellished ceiling. From far away he could hear a fire crackling, the laughter of his brothers bouncing off the rough stone walls to bring life into this dreary place. But not for Geralt. There was but one sort of company he wanted for and it had slipped out of his hands unnoticed. 

Geralt sighed and removed his hands so his head rested against the hard-straw mattress. It wasn’t comfortable and he wouldn’t find much sleep which was exactly why he stayed like this. He had to keep the physical pain up. Had to torture himself to the brink of his life. Because all of that, the aches, the burns, the stings, the cold, was easier than the heartbreak. And far less deadly.

The others didn’t crack him. Nothing ever could (except for one person perhaps with his sugar-sweet words and his voice like a fucking angel’s song and that smell, honey Geralt thought, but it had been too long), nothing would, not again. He rarely ate, he barely slept, he trained like he’d never done in his life and slowly let the season eat away at him. No sun here, not in these ruins, these mountains, this life. Each snowflake that settled in his hair added to the weight on his shoulders, each shiver hardened his muscles until Geralt thought he just might freeze altogether, turn into a statue for future generations of fucked-up mutants to learn a lesson from. His was a lesson in love, but it could be twisted in many directions. A lesson in caution, perhaps. A lesson in feeling. A lesson in trust and pain and heartbreak. A lesson-

Geralt miscalculated and the pendulum hit him hard in the back. He fell, fell, landed on his arm and it broke with a deafening crack. The side of his face collided with the glazed over stone and before Geralt could register the pain of his shattered bone, the bleak daylight blinked out.

They kept him sedated. Geralt realized this in the short bursts of waking he was allowed so they could feed and hydrate him. His skin itched and felt too tight when he did, and he sweated like a fucking pig, buried under furs and kept close to an ever-burning fire. There was always someone with him in those brief periods of clarity, but their faces blurred together. Geralt thought he smelled Vesemir’s decaying teeth when it was actually Lambert leaning over him. He felt Eskel’s stubble brush against his forehead in an affectionate kiss when it was actually Vesemir who was pressing a cold cloth to it. And in between: there was nothing. Not even dreams, just… darkness. Fucking nothing. Geralt supposed he should be grateful. With his conscious mind gone, so was the pain. But he realized quickly that he wanted it. He wanted the pain because it meant something of that love remained. Before Geralt could protest, he was out again. Sweating out the fever in a deep coma, his arm reknitting, his body recovering from the prolonged deprivation.

It was no way to heal a heart though. And when they pulled him back up, Geralt was worse than ever.

“Wolf,” Vesemir grunted when Geralt entered the dining hall which was basked in flickering fire light, kept warm by the magic of companionship. He flexed his hand absentmindedly. It had healed, but felt strange still, a few fingers numb at times when they shouldn’t be. He could only pray his own stupidity didn’t cost him his job in the long run because there was no early retirement for Witchers. Eskel and Lambert eyed him warily as he approached the table. No breaks. No happy end. Geralt sat down and pulled close the fourth bowl of soup they had kept on the table ever since his return. It was the first time he made use of it and when he shoveled it into his mouth, the others relaxed and picked up whatever conversation Geralt had interrupted.

It had been a day since he woke up and his heart was in shards, scattered all over his insides. But he realized that, if he didn’t want to die, he had to go back to the way he had been before. Before Jaskier.

There, he said it. He fucking said it. Well, thought it.

“Fuck,” he groaned as his fingers clenched around the spoon and Eskel fell quiet. When Geralt met his brother’s eyes there was a world of pain in them that reflected his own. Yeah, sure, Witchers were hard, cold, heartless bastards. And, of course, they didn’t have empathy, cared nothing for others, were monsters themselves. It was all fucking propaganda because none of the people that believed those sentiments would do what Eskel did then. He took Geralt’s free hand over the table and squeezed.

_I got you, brother._

Lambert’s features too had gone soft in the flickering firelight and he drew his free arm around Geralt’s shoulder, drew him close to his side. Vesemir hung his head.

“We would share your pain, you know,” he murmured and the pieces of Geralt’s heart trembled. They wanted to shift back into place so badly, but it wasn’t that easy. Lambert’s steadiness, Eskel’s warmth, Vesemir’s hushed words, it was all too fucking much. Geralt pushed away his food.

“We would take what burden we could from you,” Eskel continued for their old teacher and he cocked his head, a sad smile dancing about his face.

“As you would ours,” Lambert concluded. It was true. Geralt would gladly trade his life for any of the men at this table. He made a decision.

“I suppose I should have known not to let myself fall in love.”

“So, it was heartbreak,” Lambert exclaimed, fist high in the air, the food forgotten.

“Lambert,” Eskel said. “Fucking behave.” And then, focusing back on Geralt, “Women can be woeful creatures indeed. What happened?”

Geralt just shook his head. Tears stung in the corners of his eyes and he feared that if he said any more than that, they would run and run and never stop. Melitele, if only he knew what had happened. If there was any clarity.

To his surprise, it was Vesemir who spoke up. The old man whose schoolings had been harsh and whose words had always been harsher. Who loved Geralt, but rarely showed it, who always had the Witcher in mind first and the name he bore second.

“It was that bard, was it not?” he grunted and Geralt made a strangled noise. When it was faded, silence. Absolute. A log burst in the hearth, and Lambert’s stomach rumbled, a spike of adrenaline sharp in Geralt’s nostrils.

“Jaskier,” he managed through gritted teeth. “He disappeared.” Which was the last straw. Geralt slammed his fist down and the table shuddered, soup sloshed over the rims of their bowls. The others said something, leaned this way and that, but Geralt couldn’t make any of it out. The curtain of his tears was too thick to see through, the wall of pain, animal noises that burst from his lips too oppressive for their voices to penetrate. But it helped to know that his brothers were there. That they had his back.

And so, they kept tabs on him. Someone was always there and it helped. The pain of Jaskier’s absence never left Geralt, but it faded. First shards, then dull panels, then pebbles of glass that rolled around in his chest. Sometimes they found each other and melted back together, sometimes they were so far apart that Geralt thought his heart would never be whole again. But then Lambert bested him in a duel and the rage and shame of that seemed more vivid than any pain could. Or Eskel made him laugh over a stupid mishap he had and that joy burst from Geralt more willingly than the tears. He didn’t want to hurt himself any longer. And as the season drew towards its zenith, Geralt healed.

The days were getting longer again when Geralt ran along the Trail one morning, shirtless, his sweat freezing, his bare feet fighting to stay grounded to the icy earth, and his head was miraculously empty. It had taken him a long fucking month of daily mediation to get to this point. He leapt across a stream suspended in time, landed in a crouch on a patch of white grass and moved straight into a sprint. His breath came in visible puffs, but his thighs burned, and he tied back his hair as he ran to elevate some of the heat that curled against the back of his neck. He’d run this path at least five thousand times and every time he learned something new about himself. Today it was this:

_He was strong enough to get through anything._

And that was a big thing. It was rarely this much of a revelation, this fundamental of a truth. Usually, little things. His left pinky could bend almost all the way to meet the back of his hand. The smell of squirrel droppings irritated him in the morning, but not in the afternoon. He would have been allergic to bee stings if it hadn’t been for the mutations. And so on. But today it was this, and it was comforting. His body exuded heat inside, and out, when he reached the end of the training path, finished with a forward roll and came to a halt at the base of a tree that crouched below a rock that jutted out at the base of Kaer Morhen.

From this angle, the castle looked even more weather beaten. Snow-capped and ivy-clad, Geralt almost didn’t recognize his home. The walls were cracked and creaking, the life bled out of them. The School of the Wolf was slowly dying and Geralt didn’t know how to feel about that. But it was of no immediate concern and he would deal with that load of shit once the burial rolled around. For now, he was fine. He could go back to life as he knew it.

Geralt crouched, felt the earth’s life pulsing under his palm, even through the layers of ice and grass that separated them, and then he engaged his thighs and jumped, catching one of the lower branches. Panting slightly, he pulled himself up and climbed into the crown of the tree. Hopped over to the stone. His left foot slipped on a patch of ice, he nearly fell of the rock and several feet down and wouldn’t that be a grand end to his story, but he caught himself with his fingers.

“Fuck,” he grunted as he pressed himself flat against the rock. His skin hissed and so did he as he pulled himself up, until he could finally clamber over the stone and onto the mossy grass that surrounded the castle. Not his best practice, not by far. But progression, and that was all he could hope for.

Lambert met him in the entrance, an ocean tempest thrashing about his person. He was clad in greens and grays and his brown hair stood in all directions, but that wasn’t what made Geralt think of the sea. It was the panic that crashed in his eyes, the tremble of his lips, the flush high on his cheeks that set his scar into stark relief. Like a line of foam on an empty wave that was about to collapse over them both and there, buried in the other Witcher’s chest, was lodged a thunderous noise. Geralt didn’t want to know what lingered in the depths of that panic.

“What?” Geralt asked and brushed past the storm. He’d just weathered one, he didn’t think he could bear another. Not this fucking soon. Lambert, however, caught his arm and held.

“Geralt,” he said. The noise moved, then broke free as a frustrated growl that would have the hairs on Geralt’s arms stand up if he were an ordinary man. “Wait.”

“What?” The apprehension spilled over from Lambert as he leaned closer to hiss into Geralt’s ear. It traveled fast through Geralt’s system and all the calm of the morning meditation, the workout on the Trail, dispersed.

“He’s here. Your bard, I mean. Turned up while you were out.”

The wave crashed and Geralt realized he’d been wrong. He wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t get through jack-shit.

They were by the fire in the dining hall, the new fucking stage for the tragedy that was Geralt’s life. Vesemir, off to the side, had his arms crossed and leaned against the wall. Eskel crouched on the floor before a big armchair, murmuring under his breath. The figure in it was slumped under a blanket, trembling. Its head hung in misery.

Geralt made a strangled noise and everyone looked up at him. Jaskier’s eyes met his across the room and Geralt’s whole world was reduced to that connection. Another body of water here, a lake in moonlight, fearful and magical and fuck, but fuck no. Geralt had no tears left, but Jaskier cried for them both and then Geralt started across the room. Eskel was smart enough to make space or Geralt would have shoved him into the hearth and he fell to his knees at Jaskier’s legs. Took his hands the same time that Jaskier cupped his face and still theirs eyes were locked together and Jaskier cried. Nobody breathed a word. Not for a long time. Geralt’s heart beat out of his chest and he could hear Jaskier’s fluttering in the same rhythm, his little songbird, had come flying back to him, but in what a state, Geralt realized belatedly.

With his feathers ruffled and his wings tattered, yes.

Jaskier’s hair was longer, tangled and full of withered leaves, his cheek was bruised and a dried cut ran down the side of his face. His eyes sunken in and he was pale, so fucking pale.

“This place is a nightmare to find,” Jaskier whispered.

“It is,” Geralt replied.

It broke his heart to see his love like this, disheveled and broken, it really did. But that wasn’t all. It was shameful, but Geralt was also relieved. Because if Jaskier had come here, had struggled to come here, it meant he never left Geralt, not of his own accord.

He shook his head and laughed, hiccupped, brought Jaskier’s hands to his lips. They too were mangled. Bloody and bruised, nails chipped, cuts lining his palms. Not a lute in sight and certainly no piano.

The realization came in waves, slow lapping waves that chipped at his initial relief.

Someone had done this to Jaskier.

Someone had hurt him.

Someone had taken his songbird and nearly broken its neck.

Reality came crashing back. The pain, the anger, the shock. Eskel and Lambert hovering close together, by the table. Vesemir with a grim expression.

“Jaskier.”

“Love,” Jaskier replied and his smile was still there, albeit wobbly. His cheeks shone in liquid oranges and reds and Geralt felt thrown back in time to another evening they’d spent in a room lit by fire. It had been a much warmer setting, a more joyous occasion, but Geralt had felt a similar sort of fury. Jaskier was his. And no one was allowed to touch him, whatever the intention. He pressed the palms of Jaskier’s hands back to his face. Couldn’t quite believe it. All the suffering of the last months, the pointless self-harm, the moping and being depressed. It paled next to seeing the shivering form of his beloved. So fragile.

“What happened to you?” Geralt asked, but before Jaskier could answer, more words bubbled out of his mouth. “I searched for you all the way from Winneburg to Hengfors. Killed some monsters on the way, but the one thing I hunted for evaded me. You’ve never been hard to track down, Jaskier. At least you always left some sort of sign. Where the fuck where you?”

“That story might take a minute to get through,” Jaskier said and laughed shakily. “Any chance you guys keep a decent wine up here?”

“We have a fine enough barrel of whiskey down in the cellar,” Vesemir grunted and nodded to Eskel who took off immediately.

“Whiskey will do nicely, thank you.”

“If you want to rest first…” Geralt said. Answers shouldn’t be his priority. But fuck it, he was angry, and he needed someone to direct all this pent up emotion at.

“I’m fine now,” Jaskier replied. His thumbs ran over Geralt’s cheeks once, twice, smooth out the crease between his brows before he took his hands back to his own lap. Geralt wanted to pick Jaskier up and hold him against his chest and never let go, not again. But his brothers were still around and Jaskier seemed to need the alcohol more than the comfort, and so Geralt drew close a chair of his own, so close that their knees touched when he sat. The others took that as their cue to sit too, facing each other over the dinner table. The hall silent until Eskel returned with a tray, five glasses of whiskey, and handed them out. When Jaskier downed his in one go, Geralt offered him his own too. He took it with a grateful smile.

“So,” Lambert asked, agitated. Eskel pinched his side, but he went on. “What did happen? Because Geralt here was in a state over you and I’d like to know if we have to gut you or pat you.”

“Lambert!” Eskel cried out and Vesemir rolled his eyes.

“Please don’t gut me,” Jaskier said hastily. “My leaving was entirely involuntary, I assure you. As I told Geralt when we parted, I only meant to pop in at Oxenfurt to hold a week’s worth of lectures on the art of opera-writing, a skill at which I excel might I add, and would have made a beeline straight back to my trusty Witcher’s side, but I never made it to Oxenfurt. I was waylaid.” He sipped on the whiskey and screwed up his face. At least some color returned to it, some life.

“I remember asking if you wanted me to accompany you there.” Geralt rubbed his chin, baring his teeth. He should have insisted. Fuck.

“Yeah, you did. I wanted you too. Just didn’t want to be a burden, I guess. Anyway –“ headshake, whiskey, heavy swallow “-they came at me in broad daylight, picked me right of the street in the middle of composing a new song. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Geralt, I know I get distracted. It was a very good song. Anyway, I have no clue who they were, but they blindfolded me and knocked me over the head. Next thing I know, I’m in some kind of wagon, unable to move. Everything is pain, and I mean everything. I could hear them talking intermittently, all hoarse and masculine, but I couldn’t understand their language. There was someone else with me in the wagon though, a girl. Felicity, she is… she was seventeen, she spoke their language and mine. We got acquainted, as you do when you’re being kidnapped together. She said they meant to sell us off. As servants, if they got lucky, as prostitutes if they didn’t. I’ve no clue why me, why us.” Jaskier got quiet and took another long gulp. The others held their breath, so that the beating of Jaskier’s heart was the loudest noise in the room, louder even than the crackling of the fire.

“Is this the truth?” Geralt asked. He shook with raw anger, the borders of his vision a blurry red. He was going to kill someone. He was going to rip someone’s head off.

“Geralt, I would never lie to you. They also gave me this,” Jaskier said and got up from his chair. He let the blanket fall to the ground and put down his whiskey glass before lifting the hem of his shirt. Right there, on his left hipbone, was a circular brandishing mark with an intricate, twisting pattern around the edges and two letters in the middle. The insignia of his trader no doubt. Fury like a blast of magic tore through Geralt’s body. His mind let him imagine it: Jaskier starved and beaten in the corner of a mucky wood wagon with some barbarians holding him down. Wanting to cry out in pain as they pressed a white-hot iron to his soft skin. Wanting to scream for Geralt to come save him like he had done so many times before. And when it had mattered most, Geralt hadn’t been there. “Can you get rid of it?”

Geralt said nothing, just stared at the spot, reeling. His Jaskier. Taken, tortured, brand marked. What kind of a partner was he that he’d let this happen? What an absolute failure. 

“Magic might,” Eskel said.

“Yes,” Vesemir agreed. “It’s too old for salves to do much and we could only burn it away fully or ink over it.”

“Absolutely not,” Geralt growled before Jaskier could say anything to that.

“How did you get away from them?” Lambert wanted to know.

“One does not travel with a Witcher without picking up a trick or two along the way,” Jaskier laughed and readjusted his shirt. It was a simple white linen, dirt-streaked, and Geralt realized he must have stolen it somewhere because his Jaskier would be dead ere he’d be caught in something this mundane. The thought dampened some of the anger. But not in any substantial way, no. Geralt wanted to tear through the continent and find those bastards and rip them open crown to toes. “The details are blurry at any rate, I made it out is the point… Felicity didn’t. Well, I tried… anyway, I made it out and then came straight here. As straight as possible with what little clues I had to go on. But I made it. I did.” Jaskier sat back down and drew the blanket over his lap, held onto the last of the alcohol like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Geralt buried his face in his own hands. This was all kinds of fucked up and he hadn’t the first idea on how to fix it.

It was true that Witchers were not the most eloquent of creatures. That while they meant well often, they could come across as brutish, arrogant, indifferent to the fates of other people. They were separated from the world, into their own little universe up in the mountains and knew only how to talk to each other. Geralt was aware of this at least and he embraced it. He had all the company he needed with his brothers and Jaskier and it didn’t matter to him. But Jaskier, well. Jaskier would readily pack up his things and follow Geralt into this lonesome life, but Geralt would never ask that of him. No. Jaskier thrived around people and he needed constant feedback. He was at his happiest, swarmed by others to listen to his songs and tales and really, what was a bird without its chirrup. Its happy twitters and mournful cackles and other birds to dance around. Keeping Jaskier out of society would be the as bad as what his captors had done to him and Geralt could never forgive himself for harming that which he loved most. Which was why he braced himself in the silence that followed.

In that silence, Geralt couldn’t move. He was frozen to the spot, overcome by horror and shock. He pressed his thumbs so hard into his eyes that he saw stars and got dizzy. The fire was warm, but he shook, bare-chested and afraid and so fucking ashamed.

In that silence, Jaskier was still, nursing the whiskey. Unmoving. It added to Geralt’s discomfort. He was so used to Jaskier fluttering around a space, if not visible then palpable. A presence. Not the absence of one.

In that silence, Vesemir shifted from one foot onto the other, and Lambert cleared his throat and Eskel opened and closed his mouth. Geralt heard all this and he braced himself. One of them was bound to break the silence, drop the bomb. And if Geralt knew anything about Witchers, he could be sure that the impact was going to be brutal.

There was no bomb. No. Vesemir, his brothers, they surprised Geralt by leaving. One by one, without a word, leaving Jaskier and Geralt to themselves and fuck, but he’d never been more grateful for that tiny spark of common sense that the mutations and teachings had left them. When the door clicked shut after Eskel, who took the longest to get up no doubt wondering whether he shouldn’t offer Jaskier food, the warmth of the fire finally reached Geralt, seeped into his skin. He took a shuddering breath and lifted his gaze.

“I don’t know what to say to you,” Jaskier murmured. His glass wass empty, and he put it down with a clink. Shrank even further into himself.

“You?” Geralt asked, astonished. He wanted to laugh so desperately, wanted to break the wall that was between them, that he’d put there by not caring enough, fucking dammit, he cared so much, so much, but not enough and now. Now. Now Jaskier was bruised and broken and it just as well could have been Geralt who had done the bruising and breaking. “You never run out of words.” Neither of them laughed. It just wasn’t funny and Geralt wanted to fucking smack himself across the face.

“You thought… I mean you couldn’t have, right? Not seriously? After everything? You really thought…” Jaskier’s voice broke and he blinked rapidly, pushed his fist against his mouth and cleared his throat.

“What?”

“You really thought I meant to leave you? Just like that? One moment we make love under the stars and the next I disappear without a trace?”

Geralt stood so abruptly that Jaskier flinched. He grunted in frustration and turned, braced himself against the bricks of the fireplace. Stared into the flames that dance and taunt him. He didn’t know what to say either, he was so bad at this. Because he had doubted Jaskier’s feelings for him. He had, he had, he did. It was easy when Jaskier was that. Beautiful, social, lovable, talented, rich, gorgeous, witty, charming, annoying, perfect, and Geralt was this. A Witcher who couldn’t even console his love in the face of trauma.

“I didn’t want to,” he admitted finally and it was a giant weight of his chest. “Fuck.” He slapped the stone. Shook his head. Turned to Jaskier who had straightened, chest puffed out. Hurt written across his features in bold strokes, starker than the wounds, the fatigue. “I didn’t want to. But yeah. I did.”

“So that is what you think of me?” Jaskier said, anger sparking in his eyes. “You dare to-“

“No,” Geralt cut in, shaking his head, again and again. “No. That is what I think of _me_.”

“Oh. OH. Oh, love, oh no. I would never. I could never. No, Geralt, love, no. Just no.” Jaskier got up again and Geralt wanted to surge forward and push him down and scream at him to rest. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. But Geralt was too much of a fucking moron to stop it.

Jaskier walked up to him and wrapped his arms around Geralt’s middle, squeezed. Pressed his face to Geralt’s chest, forehead to collarbone. Stilled.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asked, furrowing his brow. His hands were useless, lifeless limbs at his side.

“Hugging you.”

“Why?”

“Because you need it.”

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” Jaskier murmured and placed a kiss on Geralt’s skin. Something burst inside of him. He let his head fall, buried his nose in Jaskier’s hair. Honey. Fuck, how he’d missed this. He allowed himself to hug back.

From there on, Geralt had more than himself to nurse back to health and sanity, and more than enough sins to make up for. He didn’t tell Jaskier about it, how he felt it was his fault that he’d gotten kidnapped and worse, but he tried to fix the damage as best as he could.

“I feel like a child,” Jaskier laughed when Geralt bathed him with all the tenderness he could muster. It wasn’t much, he was still too rough sometimes. His hands, even after several long seasons of loving Jaskier, were swordsman hands. They gripped shoulders too hard, accidentally tugged on hair, weren’t soft to the touch. But Jaskier leaned into them anyway.

“It’s not like I’m an imbecile now,” Jaskier protested when Geralt brought him breakfast in bed, long after he himself had already run the Trail. His songbird used most of the cold mornings to sleep in, recuperate, heal. But it wasn’t like he protested when Geralt put down a bowl of oatmeal on the nightstand and watched Jaskier, making sure he atethe whole thing.

“I could get used to this,” Jaskier drawled when they were cozied up at night, the fire high and hot in the hearth of Geralt’s room, so much warmer, so much more of home now that Jaskier shared it with him, bodies curled into each other under a single blanket. Geralt didn’t want to. Kaer Morhen was not a place for someone like Jaskier.

“Please never stop,” Jaskier whispered when another attempt at a walk in the cold noon sun turned into the two of them kissing against a tree, a rotten wall, the hard earth – Geralt being the one to take the impact, always – like there was no tomorrow. They hadn’t gone beyond that, not yet, but every time the desire coiled a little tighter in Geralt’s stomach, and Jaskier’s gasps drove him insane.

The other Witchers accepted it without much comment or fanfare. They simply worked Jaskier into their routine. As if he was one of them. They chatted and listened to his songs and cooked for him and, most important of all, they got along. It was strange, two worlds that collided and should have never merged so effortlessly and yet. Jaskier worked his magic, charming even Vesemir into easy laughter.

“I’ve had practice after all,” Jaskier grinned when Geralt commented on this. “Which is why I know a thing or two about getting a Witcher out of his shell.”

“We don’t have shells.” And if he ever had, Geralt thought, Jaskier hadn’t gotten him out of it. He’d fucking shattered it. He’d never felt this vulnerable, lost, exposed with anyone. It was exhilarating and it was scary, and it just possibly worth it.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked into the crook of Geralt’s neck one night. The room was barely lit by the last smoldering embers in the fireplace, the stars and the moon veiled by thick clouds that were on the verge of spilling fat snowflakes. Come morning, the world would be covered in a sheet of blinding white, but not yet. Geralt could taste the suspense of it on the air.

“Hmm?”

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

“No,” Geralt replied. He didn’t add that he only dared to close his eyes when Jaskier was already asleep, safe and sound. When all the potential nightmares had been chased away by kisses. “What is it?”

“I want you to stop blaming yourself.” It was a statement that left no room for argument. Not demanding in the way that Jaskier could be when he felt petulant and hungry on the road. Not a vague doubtful half-question like Jaskier asked when Geralt became corporeal fury during a fight. Not even a simple observation of ‘Oh, what a beautiful landscape’ or ‘This ale tastes like piss’. A sure fact. Geralt tensed.

“What?” he asked, huffing. The ceiling inched closer and Jaskier’s palm over his heart felt clammy all of a sudden, the heat of his body suffocating, crowding.

“You understood me, love. I want you to stop blaming yourself for what happened to me. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I never said I am.”

“You didn’t have to,” Jaskier said and his words were dust that made Geralt’s eyes burn. “I know you well enough to see it plainly.”

All Geralt’s animal instincts kicked in then. Thrashing panic coursed through his body, his muscles tight, ready to prance. He didn’t know why it struck him so hard, the knowledge that Jaskier could read him, understand him, had him figured out more than Geralt himself ever would. But it did and before Jaskier could resist, Geralt was out of the bed and across the room, back pressed against the harsh stone wall. Panting.

“Geralt?” Jaskier sat up in the bed. His hair was tousled and his chest bare, almost blue-tinged in the dim light and Geralt needed it to be pressed against his own once more, and he needed to get out of the room as fast as possible. He’d never thought his lark might turn into a bird of prey.

Geralt made a strangled noise, wheezing. There was no way backwards, no way forward. He glanced at the door, but it was bolted against the horrors of the Northern mountains. Here, where civilization was so sparse that the ancient powers still reigned supreme. Geralt might just prefer them to the terror that was his own fucked-up mind.

“Are you having a panic attack?” Jaskier asked.

“N-no.”

“Good gods, Geralt, I’m sorry, oh dear. Come back here, will you? I didn’t mean to startle you, it’s really just ridiculous that you would think it’s somehow your fault that I got myself abducted,” Jaskier prattled, hugging himself. The steady cooing of his voice, the honey-sweet sentiment behind it slowly travelled the distance Geralt had put between them. His breath evened out. “And now don’t you look at me like that. I thought we were over you being all stuck-up and brooding. I thought we agreed to talk about things like this. If you feel bad about something, anything, I want to know, dammit, so I can fix it. And if you really think that you ought to blame yourself you’re more daft than I had taken you for. It’s a fucking miracle you’re still alive.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Geralt retorted, crossing his arms. Belatedly, he realized that he had walked right into Jaskier’s trap. The bard grinned at him.

“Are you calling me stupid?”

“Perhaps.”

“If that’s what it takes to make you smile, I’ll gladly accept it,” Jaskier pronounced, then opened his arms wide. “Now please come back to bed, I’m freezing.”

It took him a long moment to peel himself off the rough stone, a steady if relentless weight, anchor, safe haven at his back side. No, Geralt chided himself, Jaskier was the haven. This was the part of him he wanted to conquer, the part of him that still wanted to flee in the face of affection and gentleness. Jaskier leaned back and caught Geralt who sank down on top of the bard with a long exhale. Jaskier kissed him, then wrapped his arms around Geralt tightly.

“Forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive, dear.”

“I have given you nothing but trouble.”

“That is not true,” Jaskier said, stroking Geralt’s back. His fingers danced over roughened, scarred skin, leaving a trail of tingling ease.

Geralt hoped that the way he held onto Jaskier, the way he nibbled on his neck and nuzzled behind his ear, the way he reclaimed his lips wasn’t half as desperate as he felt inside. To think he could have lost this. He made a helpless noise that caught in the back of his throat. Jagged, like he was.

“Don’t hold back,” Jaskier murmured into the kiss. “You don’t have to.” Not with me.

Fuck, the sentiment almost gave him a heart attack. He sunk against Jaskier’s chest, knew he was too heavy for the bard, but didn’t care, took Jaskier’s face in both hands and kissed him in every way he could think of in the desperate hope that somehow Jaskier would feel what Geralt did.

He kissed him slowly, lips dragging over Jaskier’s, teeth getting caught, and with every breath they shared, the weight on Geralt’s shoulders lifted.

He kissed him lightly, barely more than a graze that gave them both shivers.

He kissed him with incoherent murmurs of ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I love you’ and ‘Never let me go’.

He kissed him roughly, all tongue and gaps and Jaskier arched into him with little moans that made Geralt’s brain go haywire.

He kissed him like there was nothing else to his life.

And when they parted for breath, Jaskier glowed with joy.

“We really are a pair, aren’t we?”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted because he didn’t trust his voice. Didn’t trust that he could keep from bursting into tears when he opened his mouth. It was difficult to accept that he had this, was allowed to have this. That Jaskier gave this to him, freely and lovingly. That he thrived with Geralt by his side too. Geralt tightened his hold on Jaskier. He accepted it.

It was the next morning, over breakfast with the other Witchers and with Jaskier curled into his side, nibbling on cinnamon buns he’d baked for them all, that Geralt remembered. He’d meant to ask Lambert ever since that night at the Lettenhove estate, but it had slipped from his mind. Not really a priority when there had been a love to mourn and himself to hurt, then Jaskier to heal and himself to patch back up. But now they were happy, right? Now things were back to the way they had been before, weren’t they? No more issues. Except this might well be one and Geralt was overcome with an urge to find out. For Jaskier’s sake if not for his own sanity.

“Lambert,” he said and the Witcher in question looked up from his coffee which he’d been staring down. Jaskier too glanced up at Geralt, a healthy blush in his cheeks. Geralt wanted to bite at it, kiss his sugar-glistening lips, but he forced himself to look at his brother. “Do you remember the name Lettenhove?”

“Oh,” Jaskier said softly, straightening. Eskel and Vesemir were deeply engrossed in a discussion about some elixir or other, but Lambert too had come to full attention, eyes alert.

“Rings a bell. Help me out?”

“Approached us in a tavern in Novigrad, several years ago now. Bright blue eyes, wretched fellow. Something about a sorcerer having cursed his wife and son.”

Lambert tapped his chin once, twice, then remembrance lit up his features.

“Yeah, right. You had other business, so you left it to me. A strange job if ever I had one.”

Jaskier stiffened and Geralt put a hand on his thigh to steady them both. A curse could mean so many things, or nothing at all. Jaskier’s heart fluttered in his chest and Geralt feared that if he didn’t reach out to catch it now, it would be out of his reach soon. Flying to where he couldn’t follow. But that was silly and after last night he knew better. They were in this together. He squeezed Jaskier.

“Do you remember what came of it?” Geralt asked and used his other hand to empty his mug of water. It was cool, soothing to his nervous muscles. “Was there a curse?”

“Not exactly,” Lambert said, then put his elbows on the table, leaning towards them. Jaskier mirrored his posture.

“What was it?” he demanded. “Will you not tell us the story?”

“Sure, if you want me to. The fellow told me all about an encounter he and his family had at a great picnic. They are some sort of nobles and their little town has these traditional festivities. So, they arrange a big picnic for everyone to join in and this sorcerer appears, miming a starved, sick old man. He asks for help, but he does so in Nilfgaardian, do not ask me why, I never found out. Suppose he wanted for a bit of fun. Anyway, the fellow refuses and the sorcerer reveals himself, accusing him to be heartless. The sorcerer then proceeds to put a spell on the man’s wife who is heavily pregnant, then disappears. You follow me so far?” Lambert paused, and took another sip of coffee while Geralt and Jaskier exchanged a quick glance. Jaskier gulped heavily and Geralt’s grip on him tightened.

“Go on,” Geralt said.

“Well, I tell him that I am no magician, I am a monster hunter, but he insists that something was wrong with that man. That he’s seen magicians before and this one seemed odd. Thought it was elves perhaps, or faerie magic. I say fine, it’s not like I have anywhere to be and as long as he pays me, I can take a look at his wife and son, and so, I do. The wife seems normal, all golden, but there is something strange about the boy. I mean, he is absolutely charming, adorable, wide-eyed with peachy cheeks and perfect. Too perfect and he smells sweet, a little like you Jaskier, actually, like honey maybe, but in a way that makes me suspicious. I bring him to a magician who confirms that there is magic about the boy, but it’s not our magic. It was faerie. The man goes crazy with worry, promises me all the money he can spare if I can find the faerie and make it reverse the spell, whatever it is. I hunt the thing down, but when I find it, it’s already dead. Someone got to it before me. Really odd business that.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said. “What was the spell though?”

“I never got to find out,” Lambert said and shrugged. “But when I saw Merrigold a month later and asked her about it, she said faerie magic can get twisted in our realm and the only instances that she’s ever heard of it were of rich folks trying to gain immortality.”

Jaskier made a choked noise.

“Immortality?” Geralt asked.

“Who knows, honestly. She told me it never works anyway.” With that, Lambert seemed done with the conversation and got up. Geralt grunted. Looked at Jaskier who had gone pale and shaky, but still looked like Jaskier. Like the same Jaskier Geralt had met six years ago. It couldn’t be. There was no way. But. Humans changed, didn’t they? Even as young as Jaskier was, there should have been some mark of time on him. There wasn’t. Fuck, there really wasn’t.

“It can’t be, right?” Jaskier whispered, looking up at Geralt. “Right?”

“I have no idea,” Geralt said honestly.

“Well, fuck.”


End file.
